


cruel professor studying romances (or, our story in fragments of six)

by toyotas



Series: daisuga week [4]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: A little angst, Alternate Universe - College/University, Daisuga Week, Love at First Sight, M/M, Queer platonic relationships, Romance, background kurosuga, econ major daichi & social activist suga, homophobia mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-30
Updated: 2014-08-30
Packaged: 2018-02-15 09:14:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2223603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toyotas/pseuds/toyotas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>In the creative writing class he took his third year of high school, Daichi had been assigned what his teacher called a “six word memoir.” The prompt was simple enough. Jam your life’s story in a simple sentence fragment. Summarize yourself.</p>
  <p>Hemingway had famously written, “For sale: baby shoes, never worn” and nearly dissolved his readers to empathetic tears.</p>
  <p>Daichi had infamously written, “I haven’t done anything interesting, sorry” and nearly brought the teacher to frustrated tears.</p>
</blockquote>In which economics student Sawamura “Perfect Attendance” Daichi meets mysterious social activist “Mister Refreshing” at a protest on the quad, good things happen at a party, bad things happen to Daichi’s GPA, and self-proclaimed “party scientist” Kuroo Tetsurou knows <i> everyone</i>.
            </blockquote>





	cruel professor studying romances (or, our story in fragments of six)

**Author's Note:**

> college!au to celebrate my return to campus this week. title comes from “campus” by vampire weekend (and the parenthetical does not), but i think the whole self-titled album works well as a reading soundtrack.
> 
> so _this_ piece. i could explain, but really you’re better off watching this video and appreciating this tumblr post.
> 
> **warning for alcohol mention, non-explicit-sex, antagonist homophobia...i think that covers it.

 

**cruel professor studying romances**

**(or, our story in fragments of six)**

_

 

_in the afternoon_

_you're out on the stone and grass_

_and i'm sleeping on the balcony_

_after class_

_

 

i. sawamura daichi never missed a class

In the creative writing class he took his third year of high school, Daichi had been assigned what his teacher called a “six word memoir.” The prompt was simple enough. Jam your life’s story in a simple sentence fragment. Summarize yourself.

Hemingway had famously written, “For sale: baby shoes, never worn” and nearly dissolved his readers to empathetic tears.

Daichi had infamously written, “I haven’t done anything interesting, sorry” and nearly brought the teacher to frustrated tears. She responded half sympathetically, half aggravated in red pen in the margins. “Surely you’ve done SOMETHING worth mentioning.” She demanded a second draft from him the next day. He had returned with a piece of computer paper printed with his messy chicken-scratch handwriting, “I don’t know what to write.” His third draft read “I ate raisin bran for breakfast.”

After the next three assignments Daichi handed in went similarly, the teacher threw in the towel. He received a B-minus in the class on his report card with the attached teacher comments: “Despite lacking even a modicum of creativity, Sawamura’s pigheadedness is unrivaled. Additionally, he managed full marks in attendance.”

Daichi seethed when he read criticism in the report. Before he could think better of it, he had scribbled “you should learn to friggin’ teach!” onto another sheet of pristine copy paper and shoved it under his teacher’s classroom door the day after his graduation.

_How’s that for a goddamn six word memoir?_

He had about two minutes of feeling smug in the school corridor until he heard the tell-tale click of his teacher’s heels against the linoleum floor and sprinted out of sight.

To this day, it’s the most rebellious thing he’s ever done.

_

 

ii. dropping college and becoming professional napper

The spring semester of Daichi’s second year of university is, simply put, a shit show. In fact, if he could compose a six word summary of his life since February, it’s go something like “fuck this shit & eat instant ramen.” He’s up to his ears in readings, papers, and work-study obligations. He waits for test results the way patients await biopsy results. Every week pile the work on further, to point that Daichi’s an average of three chapters behind in each class and counting. He’s lost the pure enthusiasm and desire for knowledge he’d possessed in her freshman year, and it’s since been replaced with an uninspired “just get through it” mentality, which, unfortunately, does not produce stellar grades.

His exhaustion eventually becomes so conspicuous that Tanaka, a rowdy second-year phys ed major who lives just down the hall, asks him if the dark bags under his eyes have their own address.

“Very funny,” Daichi says, in a vaguely threatening manner that sounds anything but amused.

He’s sitting in his shitty dorm-standard wooden chair-slash-wobbly-death-trap that tumbles over if he leans back too far, has been there with his face in his computer science textbook ever since he returned from morning classes. Tanaka had invited himself in suddenly, without even the courtesy of a knock, which is typical. He swears he locked the door.

Tanaka pats his shoulder reassuringly, and Daichi is too tired to brush him off.

“You look like a human train wreck, Daichi-san,” Tanaka informs him, ignorant of the glare Daichi’s shooting him. (His roommate Nishinoya calls this look “Daichi’s rattlesnake move,” because like the rattle of serpent predators, this look is the only warning Daichi’s gives before the attack -- usually, a fuming lecture; he’s never bitten anyone. Yet.)

“If you don’t have anything useful to say, then get the hell out,” Daichi growls.

“Alright, alright!” Tanaka says, inching away from Daichi like he’s been burned. “I was just gonna ask you if you wanted to hang tonight. Noya and I were gonna go for a round of ultimate with Ennoshita and his film buds, and we need a third man. Shimizu-san already turned us down for the twenty-third consecutive time, and Asahi-san’s been too nervous to come back since last time on the quad when he--”

“--knocked into that little first-year girl by accident and scared her so badly she cried,” Daichi finishes. “Noya’s only told the story every weekend this month. I wasn’t even there and I’m embarrassed for him.”

“You’re too hard on him, man. He can’t help it if he’s got a heart of glass!”

That’s when Nishinoya pushes open Daichi’s door and peeks in. “You guys talkin’ about Asahi-san?”

Daichi snaps his book shut, grabs an intruder by the collar in either hand, and physically tosses them out of the room like he’s a bouncer at an exclusive club. He locks his door this time (he double-checks and drags his desk chair to brace it shut just in case). With his room’s security accounted for, he wanders over to his bed and plops face first onto his mountain of lumpy pillows, and immediately falls asleep.

_

 

iii. this boy can stop your heart

He wakes up with just enough time to take a shower, get dressed, and grab coffee before his 9 am economics seminar.

The student-run coffee shop in the basement of the library is a literal hole in the wall, and it’s one of Daichi’s favorite spots on campus. Affectionately nicknamed, “the Pit,” they specialize in what their menu declares that they support “rejuvenation by way of caffeination,” and thus, do not serve any decaf. Which is fine by Daichi, who’s been nursing a caffeine addiction since his second year of high school when he started taking college prep courses at night.

They list a variety of quirky drinks on their menu, mostly supported by their wide variety of unusual flavoring syrups. Daichi’s spirit of inquiry has always been piqued by the “pomegranate latte,” but his taste buds flinch at the idea. His drink of choice  is called the “Rocket Fuel,” and he comes in often enough that the barista sees him come in and starts on his drink without him even having to ask.

The sign by the cash register reads, “Try Rocket Fuel!!! - a creation by Yamamoto, recommended for when you’ve got three papers, five problem sets, and a group project all due tomorrow and the bags under your eyes are so large you could use them to carry your groceries. 20 oz. Drip coffee over five shots of espresso and a pump of chocolate. DO NOT TRY IF YOU HAVE A HEART CONDITION (seriously, you’ll probs put us out of business and then where are you gonna get your morning crack?)”

Daichi pays the cashier for the drink and reaches for a sleeve for his cup when he notices the cashier staring at him intently.

“Sawamura-san,” he says, “are you okay? You look like a train wreck.”

Daichi deflates. “Not you too.”

The other man smiles apologetically and wishes him a good day. Leaving the library by quarter of, Daichi has more than enough time to make it to his seminar. He decides to take the scenic route through the airy quad, rather than cut across the dull asphalt of the parking lots behind the buildings.

Even before nine on a Thursday morning, his campus is teeming with activity. Students sitting on the grass scrolling through the web on their laptops, groups of professors with coffee cups and pastries trekking across the quad to their respective buildings. He even spots a tour of prospective students leaving the admissions office--and thinks, gee, should I tell them how consecutive all-nighters and straight C’s on a transcript feel? What it’s like to be babied in high school and ripped apart by a college curriculum until any confidence in your abilities is replaced with an overwhelming sense of mere mediocrity?

He’s being too negative, he thinks, like a goddamn rain cloud. _Let them have their fun_. For all he knows, college looks like a playground to an outsider. He takes a long sip of his coffee, despite the way it scorches his tongue and throat to assuage his bad case of the decaffeinated blues.

He’s about halfway to his classroom when a muffled noise from the other side of the quad catches his attention and he turns his head, spotting the gathering crowd at the foot at the administration building. The majority of the group stands at the foot of the stairs, listening fairly attentively to a pacing boy a few steps above.

Daichi balks when he sees the megaphone the boy clutches in his hand, but then again, the whole bizarreness of his ensemble kind of harmonizes. Besides the boy’s strange silver hair color, he’s clad in a bright blue shirt emblazoned with some logo Daichi can’t quite read. He assumes it’s a band name, or maybe a political statement. The boy’s also wearing pair of black fitted jeans that hug his thighs like a dream and wrinkle at his skinny ankles, meeting a pair of orange canvas low-top sneakers.

Curiosity drags Daichi over to the gathering before he can think better of it. Or maybe it’s fate, Daichi thinks. Or (most likely) it’s the way megaphone boy’s legs look like they go on for kilometers in those wonderful jeans.

Daichi pushes through the crowd to the near front, hoping for a closer look. He’s never been so captivated by the movement of another’s body in his life. Sure, he doesn’t know what the “OCCUR” on everyone’s shirt stands for, and the megaphone doesn’t really enhance the speaker’s voice so much as distort it in a way that reminds Daichi of the conductors over the intercom, announcing stops on the commuter train, but it’s all okay. He doesn’t care, because his heart is racing, and he’s not sure whether it’s from the Rock Fuel or the boy’s pacing back and forth on the steps like a model on a catwalk.

He’s engrossed--so engrossed, he inadvertently skips his econ seminar, effectively ruining fourteen consecutive years of flawless attendance.

_

 

iv. newest gossip: the deviant, mister refreshing

“Did you hear there was another gay rally on campus this morning?” Yaku brings up casually over lunch in the dining hall, squirting a dollop of Germ-X into his hand.

Daichi’s head snaps up. “The boy with the megaphone?”

“He’s the one. I heard the new dean wasn’t happy about it,” Kai says, poking at a chicken strip with his chopsticks. “But, y’know, water is wet.”

Daichi almost chokes on his ramen and Kai thumps his chest twice.

“W-what’s the dean got to do with it?” Daichi asks.

“Apparently, he’s pretty traditional,” Yaku explains. “And intolerant. He’s said more than once that he won’t allow deviance to tarnish this school. I think he’s an alum or something. It’s hard to say what he’s after since he only got hired two month ago at the start of the semester, but seems he wanted to make a big splash right away.”

“Is he allowed to do that? The last dean didn’t give a fuck about...well, _anything_ , right? Remember the time Kuroo and Bokuto dropped a hundred bouncy balls from the roof of Building A, told him it was all for a social experiment when they got caught, and nothing happened to them?”

Yaku blanches at the memory. “Those idiots. Don’t remind me.”

“There’s no law against it,” Kai offers. “So he can basically do whatever he wants. Didn’t you see the news coverage last week? It made the front page of The Student Informer.”

Daichi is loath to admit that he stopped reading the student paper halfway into freshman year.

“Anyway,” Kai says, “the big deal is that ever since then, there’s been some kid running around sparking up trouble for him on campus. But he’s been doing it all at random intervals, so he’s tough to catch. I heard a rumor that he’s been meeting with the guy who used to head the gay-straight alliance when it was still on campus, so I guess he’s got access to plenty of contacts.”

“What’s his name?” Daichi wonders, between sips of water, trying not to sound as casual as possible.

“No one seems to know,” Yaku says. “But everyone calls him Mister Refreshing.”

“Mister Refreshing?”

“Yeah,” Yaku says. “Kenma says it’s ‘cause he’s got the word ‘refreshing’ tattooed on his wrist. And Kenma’s usually right about stuff like this, since he’s such a wallflower he gets a good look at people. The guy probably went to one of the parties at Kuroo and Bokuto’s flat--I mean, it’s not like _Kuroo_ of all people is gonna discriminate on who gets to come in and out.”

“That’s for sure,” Kai says. “We sure have met some interesting people. Especially last semester. Remember the time half the volunteer firemen showed up so Kuroo started playing ‘Fire Burning’ on repeat?”

“That was _beyond_ inappropriate,” Yaku groans.

“So Kuroo knows a thing or two about this guy, eh?” Daichi says.

Kai shrugs. “Kuroo knows everyone.”

_

 

v. couldn't find "mister refreshing" on whitepages

Daichi really hates going to Kuroo’s off-campus house during the day, but he’s even less willing to try to hardcore stalk to guy and track him during classes because it’d be beyond creepy. He really wants to know more about Mister Refreshing, but he’s still got some sense, thank you very much.

The residence isn’t terribly far and the walk is rather pleasant, a mostly shaded sidewalk between tall blossoming trees and fragrant gardens. The whole campus isn’t so bad, Daichi thinks, in the spring time and if homework if the last thing on his mind. It’s pretty even. He remembers that being one of the reasons he was so eager to attend. It seems like so long ago that he’d made that decision, despite only being a year and a half ago.

Daichi’s still amazed that the college doesn’t do something about the almost criminal appearance of Kuroo’s house, which bears striking semblance to the home of the Deltas’ fraternity in “Animal House.” Broken windows, peeling paint, crooked columns along the tiny front porch, a beach chair sprawled haphazardly on the front lawn.

It’s not shocking though.While the house is definitely an eyesore and probably a fire hazard, it still seems to be in better shape than when last he visited for a Saturday night party, and the first floor had to be evacuated due to the glaring issue of an automobile ramming through the wall and into the living room. That had been a crazy night. He imagined Yaku still had nightmares abou it.

So he walks up to the door, carefully avoiding the litter of bottles on the front porch, and rings the doorbell twice.

“Who’s there?” Kuroo yells, probably from his bedroom upstairs.

“It’s Sawamura,” Daichi calls back.

“Oho?”

He hears Kuroo descend the creaky wooden steps to the front door, and then the door clicks unlocked, swings open, and reveals just the wild-haired and sweatpants-clad man Daichi had hoped to see.

“And what brings you to my lair, Sawamura-san?” Kuroo says, running a hand through his mess of a hairstyle. “Last time I saw you, the living room was a drive-in theater. That freaked you out a bit, didn’t it?”

Daichi rolls his eyes, and Kuroo chuckles.

“I was hoping you could give me some information,” Daichi says.

“About…?”

“Uh, just someone I met on campus the other day,” Daichi says, and it’s sort of true. “I didn’t catch his name, and...I’d feel kind of stupid asking you for it again so…”

“Yeah?” Kuroo says, leaning against the doorframe, eyeing Daichi up. This is the problem with Kuroo, Daichi thinks, that he’s never sure if the way Kuroo sizes you up like you’re edible is just his natural expression, or if he’s an actual cannibal. Frankly, there’s a lot of things he doesn’t know about Kuroo. Probably better off _not_ knowing.

“Yeah. That’s all.”

“You tryin’ to get a date or something?”

Daichi jolts. “Wh-what would give you an idea like that?” he says, laughing nervously.

Kuroo grins. “Just making conversation. Why don’t you step into my office?”

“I think I’d rather not.”

“It’s not that bad anymore,” Kuroo insists. “Bokuto brought people in to fix the weak spot in the floor _ages_ ago. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

Daichi sighs heavily and complies, nervously eyeing the mess around them. Pots and pans scattered around the little kitchen, the sink stuffed with crusty dishes. The living room floor has popcorn kernels dotting the carpet near the stained and sagging corduroy couch, and there are clothes lying all over, gym shorts on the arm of the sofa, socks on the TV, and--is that someone’s bra hanging off the DVD rack? Daichi feels the migraine coming already.

“Want a drink?” Kuroo says. “I got cheap light beer and...uh, stale coffee. I think that’s it.”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“Alright then,” Kuroo drawls, flopping onto the couch, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “Have a seat! The stain is just Gatorade, I promise.”

Daichi hesitantly complies.

“So, what’s this guy like? Paint me a word picture.”

“He’s about my height,” Daichi says, folding his hands in his lap. “His hair’s kind of light and...I dunno, silvery? I guess? It’s longer than mine and kind of sticks up at the front. He was wearing bright colors.”

“Where’d you see him?”

“The quad.”

“Anything else?”

“He had a megaphone.”

The sharp curl of Kuroo’s lip in response is near malicious, and Daichi finds it enormously unsettling.

“You’re after Mister Refreshing, aren’t you?”

“That’s what Yaku called him,” Daichi confirms.

Kuroo laughs. “You’ve come to the right place, Sawamura. Sure, I’ve met him a couple times. I can see why you’re so _interested_. Tell you what. Come to my party this Saturday. I’ll make sure you get a word with him.”

“You’re in touch with him?”

“I have my ways,” Kuroo says. “How about it?”

Daichi envisions the stack of homework sitting on his desk, but the picture of Mister Refreshing’s legs with the caption “you only live once” interrupts his vision.

“Alright. Deal,” Daichi agrees, nodding. “I’ll be there.”

“Excellent,” Kuroo says, smirking.

Daichi gets up from the couch, partially because he’s gotten what he’s come for, mostly because he thinks sitting on the gross couch for too long is gonna give him a rash of some kind. He thinks it’s a wonder Yaku hasn’t staged a hygiene intervention yet.

“Thanks, Kuroo,” Daichi says on his way back.

Kuroo yells after him, “And bring a handle of tequila with you! House fee!” which Daichi pretends not to hear.

_

 

vi. kuroo’s party aesthetic: moral gray zone

Tanaka and Nishinoya had been absolutely ecstatic when Daichi had brought up the party. Asahi had been significantly less enthusiastic, but Nishinoya told him that there were some things a man must do, and party recklessly was one of them. Tanaka added that Kuroo’s party house was the “underacknowledged eighth wonder of the modern world, probably.” The four of them agreed to go as a unit and watch each other’s backs as wingmen. And Daichi did end up buying that handle of tequila, holding a brief pre-game with his hallmates, and entering Kuroo’s house red in the face and half a bottle lighter.

Now he’s pleasantly intoxicated, just enough to make the conversation flow easier and the coach seem cleaner when Kuroo taps him on the shoulder. When Daichi turns his head, he sees his host motion for him to follow him.

“Be back later,” Daichi says, with a thumbs up motion. Tanaka cheers, and Nishinoya tosses an empty beer can at his back.

“He said he’d be out on the back deck,” Kuroo shouts over the roar of the party and beat of the music in the living room, before leading Daichi into the quieter kitchen, so that they can hear each other. “I gather you’ve never actually talked to the guy before, eh?”

“What gives you that idea?” Daichi asks. He wonders if he looks actually presentable or just messy and drunk and happy, the way he feels.

“For starters, you wouldn’t admit you’re gay,” Kuroo says matter-of-factly. “And it’s like a prerequisite for interest in this guy.”

“Who says I am?” Daichi presses, feel sweat bead along the back of his neck and in his palms. “And what does it matter, anyway?”

“Geez, calm the fuck down, Sawamura. No need to be defensive about it,” Kuroo says, raising his hands in surrender. “And yeah, it _matters_. You like him. We all do. He’s hot as fuck, and that’s an objective fact, yeah? ...Look, you can be in denial about it all you want, but I think we both know you bat for the other team. And I’m telling you, no one cares about that shit.”

“What about _you_?” Daichi demands. “And all those girls you bring upstairs? What does Fre--Mister Refrehing say?”

Kuroo snorts, rests his hands on his hips. “Uh. Bisexuality. Do I need to pull up the Wikipedia page or…?”

“Oh,” Daichi says.

“You’re among friends. It’s not like anyone’s gonna rat you out, since they’re either just like you or too drunk to remember who you were making out with on the dance floor. So just… Loosen up. Get that stick out of your ass. It’s all good. Hakuna fuckin’ matata.”

“I--...just,” Daichi says. “I… Alright. I got it. I got this. But I’m getting another drink first.”

“Good man,” Kuroo says as Daichi reaches into the fridge. “Scary conversations’ll sober a guy right up.”

_

 

vii. once, daichi stripped at a party

“Um,” Daichi says when he steps out to the back deck and shuts the sliding door behind him. “Hi.”

It’s dark out here and kind of cold, and Daichi feels hyper with it, like the background is blurred into a moving watercolor canvas and the man in front of him smoking a cigarette and blowing the smoke into the starry night is a work of art of a different genre.

“Kuroo told me to meet you out here,” Daichi continues. “I’m Sawamura Daichi, but everyone just calls me Daichi. Well, except Kuroo, but Kuroo just likes pushing my buttons. So.”

The other man turns around and meets Daichi’s gaze. Daichi feels utterly dazzled in the gleam of the man’s big brown eyes.

“Hey,” he replies, resting the hand with the cigarette on the railing. His voice is higher than Daichi realized, without the distortion of the megaphone, but Daichi likes it. It’s cute. It matches.

“You know,” Mister Refreshing says, “Abercrombie’s a pretty awful company.”

“What?” Daichi says, baffled, and the man gestures at his shirt. Daichi glances down, ends up eye-to-eye with the tell-tale moose logo of his collared shirt. “Oh. Sorry.”

“I’m just saying,” the man says, thoughtfully, and he flicks the ashes from his cigarette into a small ashtray he’s balanced on the balcony. “They’re problematic, right? Fat-shaming, calling people ugly if they don’t meet a conventional beauty standard. Unless you wanna walk around advertising it, you should get rid of it as soon as possible.”

“As soon as possible,” Daichi repeats.

“Ideally.”

And then Daichi does something he could never do without first ingesting five shots of tequila earlier that night. Grabbing by the collar, he pulls the shirt from his body, over his head, and tosses it over the balcony and into the backyard.

“How’s that?” Daichi says, crossing his arms over his bare chest.

The other man grins and puts out his cigarette. “Very impressive,” he says, giving Daichi the once-over. “That works just fine for me.”

When he approaches Daichi, rests a hand on his bare shoulder (Daichi sees his “refreshing” tattoo, true to Yaku’s word). He leans in, Daichi feels oddly detached from reality, like he could do anything, maybe even fly.

The man’s lip brush the ridge of his ear. “Call me Suga.”

After that, the rest of the Daichi’s party experience passes in a alcohol-distorted haze. Suga leads him into the makeshift dance floor of Kuroo’s living room and dragged him through the rocking crowd, pushed them through to the center of the room, just in front of the speakers. In the darkened room, Daichi can’t discern the individual faces of the other party-goers, starts to understand what Kuroo had meant, feels a little more invincible.

People bump into them, a sea of jostling sweaty limbs that move to the beat of the bass in the umpteenth dubstep song of the night, but Daichi is still drunk enough to find the sway fairly pleasant, especially after Suga grabs Daichi’s hands and rests them low on his hips, over the pockets of Suga’s jeans; this presses their bodies flush together, and with the way Suga’s hips are swaying and the way he can feel the lean muscles on Suga’s lower back even through the other’s shirt on his bare chest, it only feels more pleasant.

After a couple songs, Suga turns to face him. Throws his arms around Daichi’s broad shoulders. Pushes his leg between Daichi’s and grinds the top of his thigh into the fly of Daichi’s jeans. Kisses him messily and open-mouthed.

“Come home with me,” Suga murmurs into the patch of sensitive patch of skin below Daichi’s ear. Daichi says yes, and he follows the other man out of the humid house, and stumbles down Kuroo’s front porch.

After that, he remembers the sudden bite of the cold against his skin and the pinch of Suga’s fingers on the bare skin of his waist, but everything else remains shrouded in a fog of liquor and the taste of cigarettes and cinnamon on Suga’s lips.

 _

 

 

viii. when did i get kuroo’s number?

 

 

ix. waking up somewhere else -- hello revelations!

Daichi sets his phone down on the nightstand and rubs at his temples. He’s not sure exactly where he is, but he thinks it must be Suga’s apartment, with the megaphone on the floor by the nightstand and fluorescent posters that line the wall, denoting different causes -- reduce our carbon footprint, reduce/reuse/recycle, pass anti-discrimination law for Japanese romantic, gender and sexual minorities, end whale-hunting 2014, and so on. The bright blue poster pasted on the closet door stands out in particular as Daichi squints at it -- the logo of the university’s former gay-straight alliance.

Daichi flops back onto his pillow, blinking against the blur of his vision from his pulsing hangover headache. The sheets on the bed’s other side are ruffled, and Suga’s shirt from last night hangs haphazardly off the crooked shade of the lamp on the nightstand, but other than that, there’s no trace of the other man. The other half of the mattress feels cold.

He curls up on his side and falls back asleep, dreaming briefly of Suga’s beauty mark of all things, until the squeak of the shower knob and the consequent drum of water running in the bathroom rouses him.

He unlocks his phone again. 11:30 am. He doesn’t even want to imagine how late he’ll be up doing homework tonight.

Squeaking again, the rush of water ends quickly after it begins. Suga emerges from the bathroom shortly thereafter, wet hair dripping down the column in his neck, clad in nothing but a towel loosely wrapped around his waist.

“Oh,” Suga says, pleasantly. “Good morning. I’m surprised you’re still here.”

“Why would I leave?” Daichi asks.

Suga shrugs. “Most people do. That’s why I always go for a run in the morning. So it’s not awkward when they do.”

Daichi says, “That’s kind of rotten of them.”

“I don’t mind,” Suga clarifies. “As long as they don’t steal stuff while I’m gone, everything’s fine.”

Suga fishes a pair of boxers from the dresser in the corner and drops his towel to step into them without a hint of shame. Daichi face reddens when he sees the smattering of red bruises along Suga’s pale thighs. _Hickeys._ His blood rushes from his brain, southward, against his will, and he arranges the sheets carefully over his lap.

“So, uh…” Daichi starts. “You do this a lot, then?”

Suga answering stare is indecipherable. “Are you implying something?”

“N-no, I’m just asking. I-- _No_. I’m really not,” Daichi stammers. “I don’t think… I don’t think you’re a _slut_ or anything. I was just wondering.”

Suga grins. “Good,” he chirps. “I’m gonna put on coffee if you’d like to stick around. And I think I have cornflakes and probably stale Fruit Loops if you’re hungry. Shower’s yours.”

“Suga,” Daichi says, before the other man walks back out the door.

“Hm?”

“Did we...uh…” Daichi wonders the proper protocol for requesting a one-night-stand recap. “Last night. After the party. Obviously, I’m not wearing clothes, and I woke up in what I assume is your bed, so I was wondering if--”

“Are you asking if we fucked last night, Daichi?” Suga says, lilt of amusement coloring his speech. Daichi thinks it’s weird, hearing vulgar language invade Suga’s gentle voice. Even brighter in the beam of light filtering through the bedroom window, Suga’s grin reappears, and he rests his head against the door frame.

“I was gonna put it more _delicately_ …” Daichi mumbles.

“Relax,” Suga says. “We did. And you were good, so don’t get all worried about that on me. I dunno why you guys get all self-conscious the morning-after. Also, and I dunno if you knew this or not, but you talked in your sleep last night and called me ‘megaphone boy.’”

Daichi face turns an alarming shade of purple.

Suga laughs. “I thought it was cute.”

_

 

x. seriously, i should block his number

 

 

xi. walk of shame feat. wardrobe swap

Daichi leaves around one in the afternoon, borrowed too-tight “end animal testing” t-shirt on his back and Suga’s number in his phone, dreading the work load he knows is waiting for him in the books on his desk and the message from his econ professor in his email inbox.

As much as he’d like to ignore it all and spend the rest of the day in bed, ameliorating his slight hangover and trying to patch together his memories of the events of last night, Daichi is averse to the idea of failing out of university.

He ponders Suga’s study habits, what his major might be, and why he lives so far off-campus. What kind of life does the mysterious Mister Refreshing live? And who are the other men he brings home on the weekends? God forbid one of them is Kuroo.

Daichi lets himself in to his dorm building, twirling his carabiner around his finger, jingling all of the dangling keys -- dorm room, house key, car key, mail key, econ major’s study lounge in the social science building.

Turning the corner past the hall common room, he almost runs directly into Asahi, barely avoiding the splash of steaming hot tea that spills from Asahi’s steaming mug.

Asahi yelps in surprise, and then apologizes profusely.

“No worries,” Daichi says, unruffled.

Asahi gapes. “You’re... _not_ mad?”

“Nope,” Daichi replies brightly, pocketing his keys and giving Asahi a thumbs-up. “I’m feeling pretty good today, all things considered.”

“Oh. Okay,” Asahi says. “I’m glad to hear it!”

Daichi passes Asahi, steps down the hallway to his dorm room. Tanaka peeks out of the common room, reheated breakfast burrito in hand. “What’s with him?” he asks, between munches of egg.

“Dunno,” Asahi replies. “But life is always better when Daichi’s in a better mood, so I’m not gonna question it. And this is the first time he’s looked healthy in ages. What were you guys calling him before? A ‘train wreck’?”

“No, that’s not what I’m sayin’,” Tanaka says. “I meant, when did _he_ start caring about animal testing?”

_

 

xii. coffee shop date > necessary academic productivity

 

Daichi only finishes about half of the homework he’s been assigned, fumbling through the problem sets and skimming pieces of the reading. He can’t quite focus. And after shutting his econ book midway through his half-assed study of game theory and strategic behavior, he rests his head on his laptop sleeve and passes out around 2 in the morning, dreaming of picket signs and beauty marks.

In the morning, he summons his courage, drafting five different versions of the same text and analyzing carefully the word choice of each one. But after half an hour of this, he decides to just wing it.

 

 

(His mirror is, mercifully, the only one who watches his victory dance, alone in his room.)

Thanking his lucky stars and also the office of the registrar for the blessing of Tuesday afternoon classes, Daichi rolls on extra deodorant, heart pounding with pre-date nerves. To top it off, he’s not alone in his dorm room.

“What are you getting all fixed up for, Daichi-san?” Nishinoya inquires, hanging upside down off the side of Daichi’s unmade bed. Tanaka’s on the floor by his side, focused on a video game, clicking madly at his 3DS, tongue peeking out the corner of his mouth in concentration.

“Meeting someone,” Daichi says, comb in hand.

“A _special_ someone?”

Daichi doesn’t reply, throws his comb back into his desk drawer and checks his appearance in the mirror for the umpteenth time.

“Ryuu!” Nishinoya says, poking his friend in the ribs, “I think Daichi’s secretly _dating_.”

“You made me mess up, asshole!” Tanaka whines, pulling Nishinoya into a headlock. Nishinoya’s legs swing wildly, knocking the lamp askew, and said lamp’s owner feels his patience waning not unlike a DS battery.

“Can’t you two find a different hang out spot?” Daichi says, shuffling through the shirts in his closet. “Why don’t you go bother Asahi?”

“Asahi-san’s skyping his baby sister,” Tanaka says. “Man, I wish I had a little sister.”

“At least you _have_ a sister,” Nishinoya argues. “Try growing up with three brothers and you’ll appreciate girls even more. Besides, Saeko’s awesome.”

“Yeah, but--”

“ _Guys_!” Daichi snaps, and they both fall silent; Nishinoya turns a backwards somersault off the side of the bed, kneels on the floor like an obedient puppy.

“So...” Daichi says, holding up two collared shirts. “Blue or red?”

Grinning wildly, Tanaka punches Nishinoya’s arm. “Noyaaaaa. Why didn’tcha tell me he was going on a date?”

“I did! But you were too busy playing Super Mario to notice.”

“I can’t believe the hall dad is off getting a girlfriend before we are,” Tanaka whines, and Daichi hides his cringe.

“It’s not so bad,” Nishinoya says. “Maybe our family will be whole again!”

“ _Just pick a fucking shirt_ ,” Daichi orders.

“Okay, okay!”

Daichi ends up going with blue, having double-checked Google for information about the clothing brand and finding nothing egregious. Checking himself one last time in the mirror, he grabs his keys from the hook by his door and leaves his building for The Pit.

When Daichi arrives in the library’s basement, Suga is nowhere to be found. So Daichi pays for his Rocket Fuel and snatches a table and two loveseats in the far corner of the coffee shop, where he thinks their conversation can be the most quiet. He throws his light jacket over the arm of his own loveseat and scrolls through his phone while he waits.

On Kuroo’s Facebook page, he’s startled to find pictures of himself from Saturday night’s party. Nothing too embarrassing, he’s happy to see -- laughing with Tanaka and Nishinoya, clapping a startled Asahi on the shoulder, fixing a screwdriver in Kuroo’s kitchen. He pauses on one in particular. It’s of himself and Suga upon first meeting, background painted with Suga’s cigarette smoke and the starry night sky--and, Daichi thinks thankfully, he’s still got his shirt on. He smiles softly to himself, pressing “like” and saving the photo to his phone.

“What’s got you so happy on this fine Tuesday morning?” a voice behind him inquires, and Daichi almost drops his phone in surprise, quickly shutting off the screen so Suga doesn’t ask him awkward questions like _how come you haven’t upgraded to the iPhone 5?_ or _why is the top corner of your phone cracked?_ or _why are you creepily saving photos of me into your phone when we’ve only met once?_

“I--uh…” Daichi says, “I--y’know, just really, _really_...love coffee,” and cringes at himself.

Suga beams. “Coffee is a blessing, I suppose,” he says thoughtfully. “I read somewhere that it boosts brain power, eh? And with no added chemicals--nature’s pretty wonderful, eh?”

Daichi nods, awestruck.

“I’m gonna go order.”

“Mmkay.”

Suga comes back with a large black coffee and a package of non-dairy vanilla creamer.

“I’m a vegan,” he explains. Daichi nods, taking mental notes.

Suga stirs his coffee. “So Kuroo told me you saw me at the rally last Thursday.”

“Yeah,” Daichi confirms. “I was there. Hence the whole, uh, megaphone thing.”

“Right,” Suga says with a chuckle. After a sip of his drink, he adds, “I’m always glad to see support for our cause. The dean hasn’t been making it easy for us.”

“That’s what I’ve heard.”

“Did Kuroo tell you that he’s been under fire lately too? Well, he _and_ Bokuto, technically, but Kuroo handles the housekeeping stuff--”

“--which explains the mess,” Daichi says and Suga grins.

“Well, _yeah._ But the mess isn’t the real reason why the dean’s going after him with such vigor,” Suga says. “That’s the reason he’s _citing,_ but the bastard’s always looking for little loopholes to pump up the administration. He’s throwing out stupid stuff left and right -- fire code violation, unsanitary conditions, frequent distribution of alcohol to minors, the whole nine yards. But Kuroo’s been doing his thing for almost two years now, and he inherited that house from a group of alum who’d been using it similarly. And no one in the old administration ever put up a fuss. So what makes now different?”

Daichi fiddles with his coffee sleeve. “Go on.”

“See,” Suga says, “you know Kuroo, so you know that the guy isn’t exactly subtle."

“That’s putting it lightly.”

“It is. And Kuroo’s never been especially subtle where his sex life is concerned either, and that’s the problem. It shouldn’t be, but it is.”

“Did he, like, get caught with his pants down or something?” Daichi asks. He doesn’t regard the possibility as particularly shocking.

“Kind of,” Suga replies, propping his chin on his palm, propped by his arm, elbow resting on the table. “Except that he wasn’t alone when he got caught.”

“I can see why that would be a problem.”

“Campus security found him hooking up with some freshman guy on the main quad -- you know where those hedges are between the psychology department and the math building? They were trying to hide behind them, which is kind of ill-advised, because Security always checks there first for stoners, since the light doesn’t really get in there. In Kuroo’s defense, he was completely wasted, but that’s not really a valid excuse to the administration.”

“So the dean knows that Kuroo’s…”

“Bi. Yeah. Except they call it ‘sexual deviance,’ and they’re trying to beat it out of him as best they can, without actually, like, _beating him_. He’s incurred all sorts of hell from administration this semester, far beyond what a kid caught drunk would normally get punished with. The freshman he’d been seeing had to drop out, and Kuroo was pretty cut up about that for a bit. They couldn’t hit Kuroo with underage drinking penalties, since he was of age, technically. But he’s gotten all sorts of privileges revoked. You know he’s banned from checking out books for another two weeks?”

“I didn’t think Kuroo spent a lot of time in library _before_ ,” Daichi says.

“Maybe not,” Suga says, a sly grin brushing his lips. “But it gets worse. His financial aid is going to take a bad hit, and there’s a good chance he’s going to lose the house. A very good chance. The dean is meeting with residential life. The only saving grace is that they can’t touch Bokuto, since everything’s in Kuroo’s name. Which is almost laughable, because Bokuto’s as gay as they come, but they don’t have evidence, so the most they’ll do to Bokuto is wave their fist at him from their throne of absurd legal privilege.”

“I guess I didn’t realize the school owned that house.”

“Yeah, it’s all rented. All the places on that street are. Kuroo told me that with roommates, it’s actually cheaper than the dorms since you’re off the meal plan and you don’t get the cleaning service.”

“I see. Geez, I wish he’d told me. The poor guy’s been suffering in silence all this time, and he still manages to act like his normal self...”

“He told me that pessimism would lower the awesome level of his parties by more than twenty percent. Said it was all science.”

“I’ve heard that before, somewhere.”

“...So in conclusion,” Suga says, “things are going to get very unpleasant for my corner of campus if we don’t do anything about it.”

“Is there a plan in the works?”

Suga taps his temple. “I wouldn’t be the ‘university menace, hellbent on releasing the homosexual agenda on the unsuspecting students of this revered institution’ if I wasn’t concocting a plan, now would I?”

“Is that what the dean calls you?”

“It’s not a great nickname, admittedly. Too much of a mouthful to shout across campus.”

Daichi chuckles. “What about your other nickname?”

“Mister Refreshing?” Suga offers, flashing the tattoo on his wrist. “I don’t mind it so much.”

“Where’d it come from?”

“I hooked up with a quote-unquote _straight_ guy at a party in high school. He called it ‘a refreshing experience.’

“He sounds like a dick,” Daichi says.

“Maybe a little bit, but that’s an unfortunate part of his personality,” Suga muses. “But I thought it was funny -- I guess you just had to be there to see the look on his face. Plus, I was in my teenage rebellion stage at the time. My father came from a well-to-do family, right? He’s a pretty prominent academic -- got, like, three phDs in God-knows-what. He’s all high-society and unwaveringly traditional. And obviously I’m anything but, so for me, getting the tattoo was a permanent disavowal from the way of life he tried to force on me when I was a kid.” Suga shrugs. “He sends me these ridiculous pamphlets on homosexual conversion therapy like the stubborn pig he is, but we haven’t been on speaking terms for a couple years.”

“That seems kind of lonely.”

“It is what it is. Have you told your parents about _your_ sexual inclinations?”

“Well, no, but --”

“That seems pretty lonely to me,” Suga says, eyeing Daichi sympathetically. “But enough of this heavy stuff! Who wants to talk about this depressing stuff when it’s a beautiful day out? The cherry trees are blooming! What do you say we go for a walk on the far side of campus?”

_

 

xiii. under the tree, behind the jacket

“So why don’t you tell me the Daichi story?” Suga suggests, as they wander the tree-lined path behind the science center. Strewn with cherry petals, the sidewalk is fairly well-traveled, cracked in places, sometimes uneven between the slabs of concrete. But, Daichi has to admit, this part of campus is another draw. In the cool breeze and the warm sun and the godsend that is the man at his side, he’s startled by how happy he feels.

“What do you want to know?”

“How about we start with the basics. What do you want to be when you grow up?”

“Something with a decent wage and good insurance,” Daichi says glumly.

“How about this?” Suga poses. “What would you be if money was meaningless and you could follow your dreams without worrying about dumb, pragmatic stuff?”

“Hmm,” Daichi ponders, hand at his chin. “I’d thought about being a poet in high school.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Suga grins widely. “What kind of poet would you be?”

“Hopefully a decent one,” Daichi says honestly, and Suga laughs. “I’d do it purely out of spite though. I’d had this awful teacher in my last year…” And he tells him the story of the dreaded six word memoirs.

“That was a pretty bold move,” Suga says, after Daichi’s told him about his revenge on the teacher. “And here I thought you were some unassuming, straight-laced college boy.”

“I thought so too,” Daichi admits. “And then I got drunk and hooked up with a hot guy at a party in what I’ve been told is now an _officially_ morally ambiguous residence.”

Pink touches the tops of Suga’s ears, and Daichi wonders if he’s overstepped his bounds. But his worries are assuaged quickly. Brushing the back of their hands together, Suga says, “You did do that. I think a little rebellion is good for the soul.”

“Mm,” Daichi agrees, before adding, “You know, until this semester, I’d never missed a day of class ever in my life.”

“Not even a sick day?”

“No. Not once. That was kind of my schtick, right? I might not have been the smartest guy in the room, but I was really good at showing up. I was the kid who’d hound the teachers for extra credit all the time. I’d never stepped a toe out of line until after I graduated. I mean, I never even had a drop of alcohol until it was legal. So yeah. That was me. Master of Attendance. He might not be a genius, but _boy_ , does he show up!”

“Why’d you break the streak?” Suga presses.

“I saw a guy with a megaphone on the quad.”

The twinkling stare Suga affixes on Daichi in return makes his knees go weak. “ _That’s_ the reason? That wasn’t even one of my better speeches.”

“Honestly?” Daichi says. “I barely heard a word. Have you seen yourself in those jeans?”

Suga pushes him off the path playfully. “Daichi, _please._ If you’re gonna objectify me, at least keep it in your pants.”

“Sorry. But can I tell you something else?”

“If it’s not another come-on, go right ahead.”

“I never even thought about class. Until I saw you, I was doing my morning thing, right? I had my coffee. I had my books. I was walking across campus to my econ seminar. It’s all a routine, right? Sometimes, I think I could have sleep-walked to class, sleep-participated, sleep-ate in the dining hall. I’m there, but I’m not _really_ in the moment, ‘cause I’m always looking to the next thing. The next big assignment or paper, or whatever.

“But then I saw you,” Daichi continues, brushing their hands together again. “And it was like, whoa. Look at this guy. He’s marching up and down the stairs. He’s wearing this eye-popping shirt amid the typical tweed blazers with the fucking _elbow patches_ \-- I’ve never understood that look. But this guy, he’s carrying a megaphone of all things. He’s got things to tell people. Suga, you’re like a monotony-murderer.”

“...That’s a little violent,” Suga murmurs.

“But, you get it, right? I would’ve been content to just sit in class and scribble in answers to shit I don’t care about, and I never would’ve thought beyond it. I would’ve sat in class and waited for my goddamn diploma like a cardboard cutout of a student. And I would’ve become a normal guy in a normal house with a normal wife and two normal kids and maybe a normal-ass dog, selling insurance for the rest of his worthless life.”

“And what’ll you do now?”

“I dunno. Actually, I’m kind of hoping I won’t get kicked out of my major.”

Suga snorts. “That’s pretty irresponsible.”

“Maybe.”

“Let’s sit down for a bit,” Suga suggests, tugging on his sleeve and nodding his head toward a bench between an exceptionally beautiful pair of trees. Careful not to trip over the roots, Daichi follows him, to the bench littered with delicate cherry blossoms.

“So what about the Suga story?” Daichi suggests, after they’ve settled on the bench. “What do _you_ want to be?”

Suga shrugs. “I don’t really know either. I don’t think I’ll care when it comes right down to it, as long as I’m helping people.”

“That’s…” Daichi struggles for the appropriate word. “really...cool.”

“Thanks,” Suga says, brushing a hand through his silvery strands of hair as if trying to flatten the unruly pieces in the front; they seem to remain as rebellious as their wearer.

“Do you, uh, have a major?”

“No,” Suga says dismissively; because he receives no elucidation on this answer, Daichi figures it’s not something Suga’s willing to divulge.

“What do you do for fun?” Daichi offers instead.

“I protest things,” Suga says. “‘Cause I don’t like just sitting around, and I’m not terribly shy. Kuroo says I just like being ‘pro-anti,’ but I find that...distasteful? That isn’t what it’s about at all.”

“Mm,” Daichi says.

“I just want to bring attention to things that are wrong. I want rules to be in place because they’re necessary, and not because some silly outdated tradition mandated it, y’know? And I want to give people the illusion that they have a say, and that, I dunno, they don’t always have to feel like they’re alone. Because I hate feeling lonely, but I’ve sure felt lonely a lot in my life.”

“Do you,” Daichi says, moving in a little closer, “feel lonely right now?”

“I don’t,” Suga returns, smile playing the the corners of his mouth. “Ah, do me a favor?”

“Yeah?”

“Lend me your jacket.”

“Oh. Sure.” He pulls it off and passes it.

Suga holds it in front of their faces, a screen from the rest of the hustle and bustle of the early afternoon campus rush, and closes the distance between their faces, kissing Daichi sweetly on the lips.

“They can’t say anything to us,” Suga whispers against his cheek, “without proof.”

He kisses him again, tongue prodding at the closed seal of Daichi’s lips, and Daichi parts them, feels his face grow warm at the taste of Suga’s tongue in his mouth, the sudden infusion of sweet coffee and, as inexplicably as before, cinnamon.

Occupied with the success of his romantic endeavours, Daichi inadvertently skips class for the second time that week.

_

 

xiv. shit shit shit shit shit shit

Nishinoya and Tanaka tease him ruthlessly when he ambles back into the dorm with ruby red, swollen lips, but he can only return fire halfheartedly, too pleased with the outcome of his date with Suga to really care about the snickering of his hallmates.

“I bet Daichi-san got some!” Nishinoya blurts. “Look, Ryuu! You see that strut? That right there is the strut of sexual satisfaction. Every man knows that. It’s written in our DNA.”

Tanaka nods in agreement. “It’s a textbook example. See the way his shoulders are relaxed and his gait lacks the ‘stick-up-the-butt’ affliction?”

“Absolutely! Asahi-san, got anything to add?”

“No comment,” Asahi says, eyeing Daichi cautiously. “And be careful you two, saying stuff like that to Daichi is like poking a grumpy bear.”

“No, no,” Daichi replies, pulling his keys from his pants pocket and twirling them around his finger. “It’s fine. I won’t get mad. I _am_ in a good mood. But just so you know, I didn’t get laid, so you probably need to retake Bullshit Body Language 101.”

When he’s let himself into his room, he throws his jacket onto his bed and flops back beside it, sighing contentedly. He thinks that if he could do this every day, and avoid checking his transcript, this is something he could do for the rest of his life. It’s scary even, how hard he’s fallen for a boy he met just the other day. But Suga’s not a typical guy, and Daichi figures, maybe he’s not a typical guy himself.

The shirt he borrowed from Suga after their hook up remains on the nightstand, and Daichi smacks his forehead for forgetting it. He had been too caught up in his own preparations to even recall the supposed point of their get-together.

He pulls out his phone.

 

 

_

 

xv. the limits of kuroo’s science, realized

Kuroo’s sitting at Suga’s kitchen table, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and a mug of tea in his hands when Daichi lets himself into Suga’s unlocked door.

“Hey,” Daichi says.

Kuroo raises his head briefly, before letting it fall again, stares at his hands. “Hi.”

Daichi’s never heard him look so defeated. It makes his stomach hurt, the injustice of it. Even the guy’s hair doesn’t stand as tall and defiantly as usual.

Suga emerges from his bedroom. “Hey Daichi,” he says solemnly, and he pulls a chair to sit himself next to Kuroo.

“I still can’t believe this shit,” Kuroo says. “Bokuto can’t afford to live there by himself, even with Akaashi helping him out. And I--...I’m not even allowed to be in the fucking _dorms._ I can’t believe they can do this to me. What did I do? I made _one_ mistake, Suga. Just one, and they can pave over my life like I’m friggin’ dirt to them. Like I’m some kind of _garbage_ they need to get rid of. I can’t--”

“I know,” Suga reassures, patting Kuroo’s shoulder. “We’re gonna think of something. I promise.”

“We are,” Daichi says. Kuroo glares at him, and Daichi sees it clearly, his eyes are rimmed in red.

“I’ve tried just about everything,” Kuroo spits. “I’ve pleaded and pleaded. Fucking _begged._ And nothing. I’ve told them I’d never love another man in public again. No. That’s not enough. I can’t even exist here. How long before they find a way to expel me, huh? And what are _you_ gonna do about it, Sawamura? You? Please. You wouldn’t even admit you were gay out loud until Saturday. Guess what? It’s Tuesday night. It’s been four days, and only the people in this room know. What do you know about this shit? You could change your mind first thing tomorrow and everything would just be hunky-dory, just a goddamn _phase_. And no one would know that you used to be a...a fucking _deviant_.”

Suga shuts his eyes tightly, looking pained. Daichi excuses himself, shuts the bathroom door behind him, feeling the wave of nausea crash over his gut. He clutches at his torso and rides it out, and all he can see is the way Kuroo’s eyes glossed over, like the man--the confident, swaggering, party enthusiast Kuroo--was going to dissolve completely.

_

 

xvi. origin story: birth of mister refreshing

Suga knocks on the bathroom door thirty minutes later. “It’s alright, Daichi. He’s taking a nap in my room.”

“I’m sorry,” Daichi says when he opens the door. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to say it to me,” Suga says, throwing an arm around his shoulders. “You were trying to help. I understand.”

Suga gently kisses his cheek.

“I know you were trying to be supportive. You just have to see where Kuroo’s coming from. He’s been through a lot -- just when he thinks he’s found his niche here, it’s all taken from him in an instant. He’s publicly outed against his well. No, he’s not interested in pity. He just wants his life straightened out.” Suga grimaces at his own word choice. “Er, so to speak.”

“It...was insensitive.”

“Maybe a little?” Suga says. “But he went overboard with it, I think. He’s pissed, because you acted like you could speak for his own experience, like you’ve experienced it yourself. And you haven’t. And that’s okay; it doesn’t make your voice illegitimate. You just have to be careful of what you say and to whom you say it. Kuroo’s more sensitive today, after all. He only found out a couple hours ago. He’s still in shock.”

“R-right,” Daichi says, swallowing. “You’re right, Suga. Of course you’re right. I get it.”

“I’m glad.”

He gestures to the kettle on the stove. “I’m going to pour myself a cup. You want any?”

“Yes please.”

Suga pours him a cup; Daichi sniffs, and it’s spiced. Suga’s even thrown in half a cinnamon stick. “I really like this blend,” the boy admits, watching Daichi examine it.

“So that explains it,” Daichi says.

“Hm?”

“Why you always taste like cinnamon.”

“Oh,” Suga says, a touch demure. “Well, I have it every afternoon. I’m kind of addicted.”

He pours his own cup with his own cinnamon stick and sits back down at the table, one hand gripping his drink, the other resting atop Daichi’s thigh, moving in small, soothing strokes.

“It’s all going to be okay,” Suga says simply. But he doesn’t say it optimistically, rather, like it’s inevitable fact. “He’s going to be okay, and we’re all going to be okay. It’s not over yet.”

“Kuroo didn’t sound so sure.”

“That’s because I haven’t told him my plan,” Suga clarifies. “If I did, he’d probably kill me. And he wouldn’t let me do it. Because...he’s like that. He’s always gotta be a shield for everyone, and I hate watching him do it. He's flighty sometimes, but God knows how many times he’s covered for me.”

Daichi inquires. “How long have you known him?”

“Since high school. He’s the sorry jerk who called me ‘refreshing.’”

_

 

xvii. it’s too early for snapchat, dude

Daichi rouses around eight in the morning, one arm wrapped around a quietly snoring Suga, the other numb underneath him like a limp noodle, the other man’s hair in his mouth. He rights himself, slipping out from underneath the covers a silently as possible, grabbing his phone, checking the time, and almost gasping when he sees how little time he’s got to run back onto campus, grab his books, and make it on time to his 9 a.m. class.

He nearly trips trying to shove his wrinkled jeans on, stumbles into the kitchen with his fly down and his shirt askew, nearly knocks into Kuroo, who’s still wrapped in a blanket and munching on one of Suga’s organic granola bars and scrolling through his Twitter feed.

“That’s a good look on you,” Kuroo snickers, holding up his phone. Daichi sees a flash, hears a shutter sound, and stares in horror. “I’m gonna snapchat it.”

“Please don’t.”

“Should I caption it, or just let it speak for itself?” Kuroo says, holding his phone out of Daichi’s reach as the latter swipes for it.

“Kuroo, come _on_. If this is about last night, I--”

“I’m just gonna send it blank,” Kuroo injects. “Picture’s are worth a thousand words or so they say.”

“I cannot _believe_ \--”

“Sawamura,” Kuroo says more seriously, pocketing his phone. “Shut up already. I’m not pissed. No, I _am_ pissed. I’m fucking furious, and I feel like I could murder someone. But I’m not gonna murder you, so you can wipe that deer-in-headlights look off your face.”

“I’m just really sorry about acting like I had any idea about--”

“Did I stutter?”

Daichi pauses, and then cracks a hesitant smile. “So we’re good?”

“Yeah,” Kuroo says. “We’re good.”

Interrupted by a loud yawn, Kuroo and Daichi both turn to spot Suga padding out of his bedroom, rubbing at his sleepy eyes.

“Mm. You two are too damn loud. Rude. And here I’ve been such a gracious host.”

“Mornin’ to you too, sweetheart,” Kuroo replies, and Daichi tries his best not to glare jealously at the nickname.

Suga sniffs, unamused, and he wanders into the kitchen. Daichi self-consciously double-checks that his pants are fastened properly.

“We’ve had a productive morning,” Kuroo drawls, smashing his papery granola wrapper into a ball and tossing it in the direction of Suga’s trash can. He misses. Suga swipes it off the floor and whips it back at him.

“That goes in the compost bucket, you little miscreant.”

“Honest mistake.”

Replacing the grounds, Suga switches on his coffee maker, sets it to brew a new 4-cup pot, and takes a seat on the empty tile counter, looking at both of his guests expectantly.

“We made up,” Daichi explains. “Uh, a couple minutes ago.”

“You missed the make-up sex,” Kuroo says, swiping at a game of Jewel Hunter on his phone. “It was _outstanding_ ”

Daichi smacks him over the side of the head. “Don’t be gross!”

Suga hums and draws his legs up to his chest, dangling his feet over the side of his perch. “I’m glad,” he says calmly. “Because I’ve been thinking of a plan, and I want you both with me when I put it into action. I’m not sure I can do it alone.”

“Absolutely,” Daichi agrees, and Kuroo concurs. It’s scary, Daichi reckons, how willing he is to do anything for Suga, having known him only since Saturday. Scarier yet, how willing he is to do anything for Kuroo, whom he’s known for _too_ long.

“Thanks,” Suga says, letting his head fall back against the wood of his kitchen cabinets. “God, it’s already half-past eight. I was gonna go for a run, too.”

“...Half-past?” Daichi repeats. “ _Shit_! I’ve got class! I almost forgot.”

“Do I get a kiss goodbye?”

Daichi complies, moving to Suga and, on his tip toes, sweetly planting his lips on the other man’s forehead, brushing his thumb intimately along Suga’s cheekbone (“ugh, you two are _sickening_ ,” Kuroo huffs at their public display of affection) before turning to leave.

“I’ll send you a text later,” Suga promises. “So be on the look out. And don’t fail your class!”

Daichi grins. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

On his way out, he hears a phone vibrate on the kitchen table.

“Yo, Sawamura,” Kuroo calls out after him. “Bokuto snapped back. He said he likes your boxers!”

_

 

xviii. how loyal, waiting by the phone

 

 

xix. suga and the Big Scary Secret

 

_"RISKS RE: MONEY --_

  * _most people are risk averse. they don’t like uncertainty._
  * _models of this have  been devised by economists using the  concept  of  utility_
  * _buying insurance is an example of coping with risk._
  * _diversification refers to the reduction of risk achieved by replacing single risk with a large number of smaller, unrelated risks. “don’t put all of your eggs in one basket.” the risk of a stock portfolio declines as more stocks are added_
  * _help suga get kuroo’s house back help suga get kuroo’s house back help suga get kuroo’s house back help suga get"_



 

“Hey, Daichi-san!” Nishinoya greets as he and Tanaka burst into his room suddenly. “Hmm… Whatcha writing? Notes?”

“Shit,” Daichi breathes, scrambling to backspace the last bullet of his notes, blush crawling up his face. Had they seen that? His screen was pretty wide. Daichi curses his one-track mind. He’s been getting distracted more easily the past few days, and he knows it’s because of Suga. He can’t get his mind off the last text message. _Dependable._ Suga thinks he’s dependable. Daichi could sing.

Maybe selectively dependable, he corrects himself. He still hasn’t even cracked open his computer science book. Categorically dependable. He has a streak, he figures, and it’s limited to attractive social activists with beauty marks and mysterious back stories.

“Nothing,” Daichi says, slamming his laptop shut. “How many times have I told you two to knock? Or better yet, leave me alone?”

“Why would we leave you alone?” Tanaka says. “That would ruin the hang out with Daichi every other night tradition. Right, Noya?"

Noya nods his head solemnly. “We have to keep this family together, through thick and thin. That’s our role as beloved sons.”

“Oh, my God.” Daichi pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Would you quit it with that?”

“What’s eatin’ at-cha, Daichi-san?” Nishinoya says, pushing himself upright on Daichi’s bed.

“Do we need to beat up some city boys for ya? ‘Cause Noya and I are a dream team,” Tanaka adds, leaning against the bedpost, cracking his knuckles and screwing his mien into a poor caricature of a gang leader.

“If you keep making expressions like that,” Daichi says, “your face is going to get stuck that way. And Nishinoya, _get your dirty shoes off my sheets_.”

Nishinoya dives to the floor. “Sorry.”

“Whatever,” Daichi says, and sighs. “...Alright. You guys ever get really, _really_ nervous about something?”

Nishinoya and Tanaka exchange similar looks.

“Entrance exams,” they say in unison.

“I see.”

“I bet you didn’t have to study a lick for ‘em, Daichi-san, but Noya and I had to sit through review sessions for _weeks_ to stand a chance,” Tanaka says, grimacing at the memory.

“But I guess it was fine,” Nishinoya continues. “‘Cause we’re here now right. And funny enough, the tests didn’t seem so horrible when I’d taken all the classes. Something about training the brain, right? It’s like throwing a frisbee when we play ultimate. We do it so easy now, but how long did it take to figure out how to flick the disc? You just gotta do it over and over again, ‘til your body knows what it’s doing so well, you can’t possibly fuck up.”

“Yeah, ‘cuz then you know that even if you mentally flip out and freeze up, your body’s still gonna take you where you need to go. It’s like an extra shot of self-confidence, if that makes any sense,” Tanaka concludes.

Daichi stares. “That was...actually really good advice.”

“Don’t look so surprised!” Nishinoya barks, whipping a pillow at him. “We might not be honor students, but we’re awesome at life.”

“So what’s it you’re so anxious about anyway?” Tanaka queries. “It must be something big to mess with your head. You’re the sturdiest guy we know. You have a presentation or some shit?”

“Uh,” Daichi says. “Yeah. Kind of.”

“You’re gonna be fine though, if that’s all it is.”

“Yeah,” Nishinoya says. “All you gotta do is pretend the audience is Ryuu and me, ‘cuz you always get scary articulate when you lecture us! You’ll definitely pull full marks.”

Daichi thanks them, finishes his note-taking but lets them hang around until midnight, recalling their last ultimate frisbee match and the middle school students they got to teach at their last teaching field day before he wrestles them out the door.

Setting his phone alarm for eight a.m., Daichi climbs into bed, hoping some shut-eye will help alleviate the gnawing anxiety in his chest. _Help Suga get Kuroo’s house back, help Suga get Kuroo’s house back, help Suga get Kuroo’s house back…_ Repetition. Muscle memory. Remember the goal and reach for it, even against the most formidable adversity. _Help Suga get Kuroo’s house back._ How fitting, Daichi thinks, to have a six-word sentence keep him on track.

He gets up the following morning and goes through his usual routine without much of a struggle. Shower. Keys. Rocket fuel at The Pit. Cross-campus walk to class. This week, he thinks, without any sightings of saintly boys with megaphones. Class bores him like nothing else, but he gets through it with minimal participation, chiming in occasionally with his insubstantial opinions of the text. No one bothers challenging his flimsy responses. Econ seminar, computer science, econometrics lecture… He can’t think in numbers properly -- he’s imagining Kuroo’s house, empty and desolate. He’s imagining the way Suga’s face reddens when he speaks invigoratingly to the crowd. He’s imagining holding Suga’s hand in front of the dean of the school. His mind is twisting a hundred different ways with worry. Everything that can go wrong.

Repetition, he reminds himself. _The house and Kuroo and Suga_.

He’s sitting on the concrete administration steps by one-thirty, feeling too nauseated to eat lunch. On his phone, he’s brought up the picture of Suga and himself, the night of the party. Staring at it energizes him, he decides -- something about the smallness of the two of them on the huge canvas of the starry night sky. Like no matter what he does, no matter how they do, even if they fuck up royally, the Earth will keep turning.

Suga’s got an ace up his sleeve that he won’t even divulge to Kuroo, a man he’s known romantically and platonically since high school. Tanaka and Nishinoya might’ve called Daichi steady, but Daichi thinks he’s a mere leaf in a hurricane when held up against Suga. He’d rely on Suga like a dream.

_It’s in Suga’s capable hands now._

He closes the picture when he sees Kuroo and Suga walking together up the center path of the green, trash can studded quad.

“Hey,” he greets them both, rising to his feet and shoving his phone into his back pocket.

Neither of them respond. Suga bites his lip anxiously. Kuroo’s face is pale, like he’s had something horrible to eat.

“What’s going on?” Daichi presses, staring between the two of them, too worried about him compatriots to even remember his own concerns from a minute ago.

“You tell him, Suga,” Kuroo mutters.

“What?” Daichi says, drawing his eyebrows together in confusion. “Who are you talking to? Why are you callin--”

“It’s my name,” Suga says somberly. “Sugawara Koushi.”

Daichi stomach drops so far, he imagines it’s hanging by the skin of his knees. “You mean like... _Dean_ Sugawara?”

“Yeah,” Sugawara Koushi says, eyes trained on the canvas of his sneakers. “Him.”

_

 

xx. wielding the papers and taking names

“I’m really sorry,” Suga says, kneeling beside Daichi on the concrete stairs. “I should have told you both sooner.”

“You’re damn right,” Kuroo says angrily, his face in his hands, elbows resting on his too-tall knees.

“I had my mother’s name in high school,” Suga explains. “I’m his bastard son, you see. But Mom always called me Suga, ‘cause she couldn’t get over him. I just let her do it again and again -- why cause her more pain when she already suffered so much? I don’t like to watch people cry if I can do something about it.”

“And that’s why you came here when you did?”

“It’s funny,” Suga says and laughs darkly. “I’d been checking my email or something. I’d just gotten off from work, and what’s the first news story that pops up? He gets hired here, to _your_ school, Kuroo, like my life’s come full circle. I knew he came in to plug up the ‘moral leakage,’ or whatever he calls it. And I knew I wasn’t going to let him do it without a fight.”

“So…” Daichi struggles for words in the heat of this stunning revelation, “you’re not a student?”

“No,” Suga says. “I’m not. I’ve never been.”

“And the apartment…?”

“Belongs to the former GSA president, and it’s in her name. She lives with her girlfriend and I just try to make ends meet by the end of the month. Shimizu’s lenient about it, because she knows why I’m here.”

“You’ve sure thrown us a fucking _screwball_ here,” Kuroo says, voice muffled by the skin of his palm.

“I know,” Suga says sympathetically. “And I’m going to fix it.” And he pulls a folded packet of paper from his pocket.

“Birth certificate,” he explains, “And medical records. Proof he’s my father.”

Daichi freezes. “You’re not gonna…”

“I’m looking out for my own, Daichi. That’s why I’m here.”

“But --”

“I’ve made up my mind. I told you I had something up my sleeve, and I do. It’s more than enough to make him back off, and if it doesn’t well… I’ll just deal with it and think of something else.”

“Would you just think about yourself, Suga? For _once_?” Kuroo seethes, jumping up to snatch Suga’s wrist in a vicegrip. “This is _my_ mess. And it’s just a stupid house, for Christ sakes! I can get another one.”

“It’s not about the house!” Suga replies, eyes darkening. “God, if it was about the house, we’d be looking at rental ads in the Student Informer right now, wouldn’t we? No, it’s about respect! And how that man in that office right over in that window--you see it? That man over there hasn’t been here three days, and he’s already wedged himself into your life and taken the controls. And you know what, you two?”

He glances heavily at them both; Daichi’s heart skips a beat. “He’s already done it to me. I’m not gonna let his hatred infect anyone else. I know he’s got friends in high places and all the influence in Japan, and he send out memos to this community that’ll get me kicked out of here so quick, my head’ll spin. But I have a chance, and I’m going to take it. I’d rather try it and deal with the consequences a thousand times over before I’d watch my friends get hurt for a part of them they can’t do anything about.”

Kuroo’s hand falls back to his side. Suga sighs.

“I’m going in now,” he says in a low voice. “You can follow, but it’s your choice.”

Daichi swallows, stealing a peek at Kuroo.

“I can’t watch you do this for me,” Kuroo whispers, smiling apologetically. “I’m sorry. But I can’t.”

Suga pats his shoulder reassuringly. “It’s fine. Daichi?”

_Help Suga get Kuroo’s house back. Help Suga get Kuroo’s house back. Help Suga get --_

“I’m in.”

_

 

xxi. a tyrant sits on his throne

Dean Sugawara’s silvery hair, slicked back and curling behind his ears, is the only similarity that Daichi can spot between the middle-aged academic and his illegitimate son. The dean’s mouth seems permanently distorted, shaped and etched with wrinkles into a frown--this, in contrast to the bright sparkle of Suga’s hazel irises and the natural upturn of his lips. Even with this game face, the steely mask Suga has stretched over his face, and the fire burning in his eyes, Daichi still reckons Suga is about the most angelic looking person he’s ever seen in his life. Even in his fury, Daichi thinks he looks righteous.

This is Daichi’s view from where he stands to the right, beside the heavy bookcase that stretches along the far wall of the dean of student’s office, across from the windows that peer over every inch of the cornerless quadrangle outside. The office fit for a tyrant. Nothing does unseen. Daichi watches son, laying out the papers carefully atop the mahogany desk like he’s about to defend a hypothesis, and father, peering over the fold of his hands where they rest against his chin, his cold, bespectacled stare affixed to the hands of his son where they smooth out the creases of the documents.

The creases on the old man’s face deepen as he scans the pages carefully. Here is Suga’s thesis. Here is the time to defend it. Here is his challenger.

“Is this what I think it is, Koushi?” the dean says carefully. Menacingly. Daichi has never met the dean before, but he knows danger when he hears it.

“It is.” Suga’s voice is falsely sweet in return.

“This is unsettling,” Dean Sugawara says, drumming his fingers on the desk. “I don’t like finding threats from simple children on my desk.”

“As I can imagine. But you should know I’m very serious.”

The dean skims the papers once more, shoves them to the corner of his desk like they’re something rotten.

“You,” the dean murmurs, “are not my son.”

The dean, Daichi realizes, is not only loath to acknowledge his son. Not merely his relation to Suga, but the existence of Suga entirely. Like he’s garbage to be tossed away. And the sheer, corrosive acid of his tone ruffle the hairs on the back of Daichi’s neck. Here is Suga’s upbringing in six words: _To him, Suga’s not even human._ Daichi can’t even imagine the grief of carrying around that man’s name every day, even in its limited, corrupted form.

“That’s not what the papers say, unfortunately.”

“What do you want, Koushi?”

“I want you to stop what you’re doing. Everything you’ve done for the past few months. I want you to revoke every unwarranted charge you’ve placed on a student at this school.

“And,” Suga adds, “I want you to apologize to them.”

“You want me to apologize to a bunch of misfit sexual deviants?” the dean all but sneers. “Just so what? You can all hold meetings and collectively ruin the school’s reputation? I don’t think so.”

“Then these documents will be made public. The Student Informer will know. I’ll bring it to the city paper. I’ll scan these and post them on every website I can find. I’ll bring you to ruin -- the man who couldn’t bother with former girlfriend’s pregnancy and ditched his only son. You didn’t even send us _money_. And I came looking for you, thinking maybe he had a good reason. I wrote you letters about myself, everything I was, because I thought you’d want to know. I thought you might care, and that some, I dunno, force of nature was forcing you away from us. I tried to find your phone number with nothing but my shared family name.”

“Koushi.”

“--And what does my biological father say to me when I track him down? Oh, he read my letters, alright. You all but told me to disappear on the spot!”

“ _Koushi_!”

Suga stares defiantly. “I go by Suga, because I think _someone_ should redeem your name, if only for mom’s sake.”

“You’re _disgusting_ ,” the dean spits. “My worst regret in life. And here you are, raising a riot under my roof like the little _fag_ you are --”

“Enough!” Daichi bellows from his side in the room, heart racing wildly. The dean stares at him like he’s just noticed his presence in the room. Suga gazes at him with wet eyes, like the winds been knocked out of him.

“Who are you to--” Dean Sugawara starts, but Daichi interjects.

“Suga, he’s seen the documents,” Daichi says, walking over to the other man and squeezing his shoulder. “He knows what we can do. Enough’s been said already. We should leave it here.”

“Who are you?” the dean repeats.

_Help Suga get Kuroo’s house back. Help Suga get Kuroo’s house back. Help…_

“Daichi--”

“Suga’s the love of my life,” Daichi says before he can stop himself. “And that’s all you need to know.”

_ 

 

xxii. sophomore slump intensifies; my transcript screams

In the morning, Dean Sugawara resigns. Daichi reads it on the Student Informer’s website; Yaku had emailed it to him. While it only speculated on the dean’s motivation for doing so -- health concerns, conflict with the administration, a failure to see eye-to-eye with the board of trustees, and so on -- Daichi thinks it’s enough. He offers it to Suga, but Suga refuses, only tucks himself closer to Daichi’s side, and Daichi, in return, tightens his grip around Suga’s shoulders.

They lie together in bed in the aftermath, barely moving, even the next day. Daichi skips his entire schedule of Friday classes and doesn’t say a word to his professors or his friends in the dorm. He doesn’t care what happens to him, hasn’t given it a thought since he met Kuroo and Suga on the steps in front of the administration building nearly a day ago.

Daichi strokes a hand through Suga’s silky hair, asks if he wants lunch.

“Stir-fried vegetables and rice. How does that sound?”

“Please take care of me.”

“I am,” Daichi says, planting a feather-soft to the top of Suga’s hair, the unruly bits that won’t quite lie flat on his skull.

He’s thrown a mix of vegetables into the sizzling pan and turned on the rice cooker before Suga joins him in the kitchen to his spot next to the stove, throwing his arms around Daichi from behind.

“I’m sorry,” Suga murmurs into his back, “for dragging you into that.”

“I don’t mind,” Daichi says pleasantly. “I think you know that now.”

“Did you mean what you said back there?”

“I said it in the heat of the moment,” Daichi says, “because I couldn’t stand what I watched.” He shifts the contents of the pan with his rubber spatula. “But I know I mean it when I say I would do anything for you.”

Suga sniffs into his back.

“Is that wrong?”

“No,” Suga says firmly. “I don’t think so.”

“I’ve only known you for --”

“Daichi.” Suga’s grip tightens. “It’s okay. Let it happen.”

“Okay,” Daichi says, and a beep announces the steamed rice. Daichi finishes with the vegetables shortly afterward, turns off the burner, and pulls out two bowls from the cabinet over the sink. “Dig in. You must be hungry.”

“I could eat a figurative horse,” Suga says, and Daichi watches a smile emerge on his face, like a rainstorm in a desert. Daichi can’t help the grin he offers in return.

They eat quietly, ravenously, interrupted only by the vibration of Daichi’s phone.

“Who is it?”

Daichi grimaces. “I think it’s my academic neglect catching up with me.”

“You ought to take care of that.”

“Will you come with me? Please?”

“Since you asked so nicely,” Suga says. “But I’m going to finish this lunch first.”

_

 

xxiii. after kuroo’s redeemed--or rather, re _dean_ ed

In the end, Kuroo receives the keys to his house from the administration in the mailroom a few days later. No note or no explanation attached. Predictably, he announces the revival of the Saturday night party. The week’s theme? “Refreshing.” It’s the self-proclaimed party scientists way of expressing his gratitude. And offering citrus-y cocktails at the makeshift bar that is his kitchen counter.

Daichi and Suga attend, spot Kuroo dancing in the living room with a drink in his hand, a slow grind against some younger blond boy. They smile, nod to him, but they do not interrupt. Instead, they grab their drinks -- a screwdriver for Suga, a margarita for Daichi and settle against the railing on Kuroo’s back porch, watching the twinkle of stars in the broad night sky. Suga doesn’t light a cigarette like Daichi expects -- merely settles for the warmth of Daichi’s body, settles against it tucking his head under Daichi’s chin like that embrace is made for him.

“Remember those six word memoirs you wrote in high school?” Suga says, lips at the skin of Daichi’s neck. Daichi can just hear him of the roar of the party, the bass exploding from the speakers.

“They’d be hard to forget.”

“I’ve got a good one.”

“Tell me.”

Suga pulls himself up, kisses Daichi’s lips and Daichi feels the way the other man’s lips upturn midway through. “How about ‘it’ll all turn out just fine’?”

“Optimistic,” Daichi replies, as the beat of the next dubstep song rattles the glass  screen door to the porch. “But I think ‘Kuroo’s house collapses under raging partygoers’ might fit the mood better.”

“Former dean confirmed for king asshole?” Suga suggests

“Sawamura Daichi confirmed for awesome boyfriend,” Daichi returns.

“Sawamura Daichi confirmed for backyard stripper,” Suga counters, laughing. “That was the first thing you did when we met, remember? God, I think I knew you were a keeper right then. And your _shoulder muscles_.”

“It’s all that training, tossing my hallmates out of my room. Sometimes literally. You can thank them when you meet them. I wanted to introduce you.”

Suga swipes his thumb over Daichi’s lips and beams. “Does that mean what I think it means?”

“I’m gonna tell them about us. Everything, I mean,” Daichi says. “The whole story. I’m not going to keep secrets anymore. I don’t think I _can_ , not after everything that’s happened the past couple weeks.

“When can we fall in love?" 

“Hm?”

“It’s another six word memoir,” Suga explains. “When can we fall in love?”

Daichi brings their foreheads together gently, a better look at the flush of Suga’s cheeks, the hint of stubborn cinnamon in his breath.

“With you,” he says, counting the words on his fingers as they leave his mouth, “I’ll never fall out.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> yep, those were my (bad) econ notes. thanks for sticking it out & please let me know if you find any glaring mistakes. as always, you can find me s-uga on tumblr dot com.


End file.
